Boone at Seven
by Faran1078
Summary: Boones' first Christmas after his fathers' death


It's Christmas Day and Boone is seven. It's been almost a year since Edward died leaving Boone and Sabrina alone, a year in which Sabrina, never a particularly demonstrative mother, had steadily withdrawn even more from her only child.

Boone has been mystified by this, has tried to ask her what he's done, but the answer is only too clear in her constant disapproval. He tries his best, he really does. He memorizes the rules and knows not to touch the glass apple on display in the dining room. He knows he's not allowed to come downstairs in his pyjamas, he's learned to cut his own meat, because only babies need adults to cut it for them, and not to touch his food with his fingers, even when it's peas and it takes forever for his clumsy childish hands to chase them down, so he can finally eat them. But the rules change every week, no sooner does he think he's got them down pat, then suddenly they shift. Suddenly he's to be downstairs at a certain time whether he's wearing his pyjamas or not, because this week it's the time that is more important than his attire.

He's like a fish out of water, and he's floundering, praying that he'll find some way to please her, some way to be the good boy that his daddy always said he was.

oOoO

It was at Edward's funeral that the first sign of the troubles to come appeared. The two of them were standing at the back of the church, the casket, on its wheeled gurney, open before them, affording them a final look at the man they both loved before the highly polished oak lid was closed forever.

Sabrina stared into the slack face of her dead husband and hardened her determination. She'd never loved anyone as much as she'd loved Edward; though no one could have suspected from observing her, his passing had just about killed her as well. She was never going to let anyone get as close again, it was safer that way, less painful. She carefully shut her heart in a metaphorical iron box. If only she could save Boone from the same pain, steel him against the vagaries of love as well, but she knew her son, he was earnest, trusting, so eager…still she'd try.

Boone was straining to stand on his tip toes so he could see into the wooden box that held his daddy. Most people may have thought that he was a little too young to understand the true concept of death, but he was smarter than most children his age, and he'd lived through the months of Edward's illness, so he knew exactly what had happened.

Each time a relative approached him and offered up yet another euphemism for his father's passing Boone would look at them solemnly and correct them. "Daddy didn't go to heaven, daddy died."

Finally realizing that his attempts to see his father's face were futile, he tugged gently at Sabrina's hand. "Mommy, I can't see. Can you lift me up?"

Sabrina glanced down at his open face, and stifling a sad sigh while tossing away the metaphorical key to the protective metal case she'd just shut her emotions away in, responded, "No, Boone, and you should stop calling me Mommy. You're the man of the house now, Boone. I think that from now on it would be more appropriate if you called me Mother or even Sabrina." She pulled her fingers away from his, and marched to her seat at the front of the church, leaving the bewildered child alone.

He stood there uncertainly until an employee of the funeral home, who had witnessed the scene, carefully lifted the boy, held him for a minute near the open coffin, then set him on his feet and gently guided him to the seat beside his mother.

oOoO

Boone had been eager, of course, to open his presents as soon as he awoke, but he waited in his room until he was summoned. This would be the first Christmas without Edward, and while he wasn't sure exactly how the rules for the day would have changed, he was absolutely certain that they definitely _had_.

He'd bathed in his ensuite and dressed in what he guessed was suitable clothing, the same kind of thing he'd wear on the weekends; then sat in the reading alcove in his room with a favourite book.

Finally liberated from his self enforced solitary confinement by the arrival of the housekeeper to fetch him, he stole a glimpse into the living room as he passed, trying to see just how many gaily wrapped packages there were under the intimidatingly large Douglass fir, wondering just how many were for him.

Breakfast over; complete with admonishments from Sabrina for him to slow down, they'd finally gotten to the presents.

When he thought he wasn't being observed, Boone glanced surreptitiously at the chair that Edward used to occupy, now relegated to a remote corner of the room, he missed his daddy terribly. The joy of Christmases past was absent, this Christmas, save for one heart wrenching exception, was just short of sterile.

Boone had watched, trembling with anticipation, as Sabrina had opened his gift to her. He'd seen the crack in her icy façade as she lifted the lid on the box and removed the framed photograph. It was a picture of the three of them, he'd had it in his bedside table and had persuaded one of the staff to take him to the photo store to have it framed, hoping that the offer would bring his mommy back to him, make her love him again.

She'd held it in her slightly shaking hands and raised her face to him, unshed tears in each of her eyes. "Oh, Boone."

He'd all but leaped into her outstretched arm, thrilled at getting a hug, and almost ready to faint when he felt the kiss on the top of his head.

She'd quickly regained control of herself however, and put the present back in its' box. Replacing the lid, she'd commented "It's lovely dear, though I think a wooden frame would have been better, why ever would you have chosen silver?"

He bit back the whimper that threatened to rise in his throat, his hopes dashed. Why couldn't he do anything right?

Sabrina had been less than impressed with the toys that Boone had received from his Aunt Bella and Uncle Will, but had been pleased when his favourite gift appeared to be the lushly illustrated astronomy book that she'd given him. He'd paged through it quickly when he opened it and then placed it carefully close by his side as he'd gone on to open the rest of his presents, his hand dropping often to the cover as his fingers traced the colourful pattern of the nebula that was depicted on it.

The two remaining Carlyle's sat silent now in the living room, each with their memories, the carefully decorated tree ablaze with lights, the last of the parcels open, the paper carefully folded, the boxes nested tidily inside one another, the gifts neatly arranged.

Finally Sabrina roused herself to speak. "That's the last of it Boone. I want you to go upstairs and dress properly for dinner. You have one hour to get your presents put away, do you understand me? One hour." Sabrina instructed.

"Yes, mommy…mother." Boone corrected quickly; then nodded eagerly, smiling warmly, leaning towards her slightly; hoping for another kiss before she left the room.

Sabrina stood, then leaned down, he turned his cheek expectantly, "You've gotten finger marks all over that book cover Boone, be more careful." She said before sweeping from the room.

His shoulders slumped as he used a corner of his t-shirt to carefully eradicate the smudges he'd made on the glossy surface.

Less than twenty minutes later, dressed in a ridiculously expensive black Armani suit, complete with white shirt, black tie and dress shoes, Boone was back downstairs, nestled into the window seat in the back sitting room, the book in his lap.

As he looked through page after page of otherworldly sights, he lost complete track of the time, entirely entranced by the unimaginably colourful patterns reproduced in a variety of lurid hues.

When he heard the clack of his mothers' heels pass by in the hall, he suddenly remembered her warning that he only had an hour to put his presents away. He wasn't wearing a watch, but surely a whole hour hadn't passed by already!

Boone bolted to his feet, leaving the book behind, he hurried towards the living room, he would have run, but not running in the house was a rule he'd learned the hard way.

He turned the corner and, where he was expecting to see the small mound of his gifts, there was only the bare hardwood floor. Boone started trembling, his fists clenched, and his breathing hitched.

'No, no, no!' He thought wildly, blinking his eyes, hoping that the next time he opened them, his gifts would have rematerialized.

"I told you that you had an hour, Boone." Sabrina said from right behind him, causing him to jump. He'd been so focused on the disappearance of his Christmas presents he hadn't heard her approach. He turned to her, trying not to cry.

"But…" he choked out "it can't have been an hour already."

She raised her wrist and tapped her watch, "It's been an hour and a half Boone. I suggest that you learn how to tell time a little more accurately." She pointed at the clock on the wall. "And don't bother crying, you only have yourself to blame."

Leaving him standing at the entrance to the room, Sabrina headed for the dining room to inspect the table setting.

Fighting back the tears, he retrieved his book then headed upstairs, he found himself pausing outside the door to the bedroom where Edward had spent his final days.

Boone leaned his head against a panel of the door and finally gave in to the tears. "Daddy," he whispered, "Daddy, I miss you." The tears gave way to sobs and he sunk to the floor, clutching the book and trying to muffle the sounds of his misery against the sleeve of his suit jacket.

The housekeeper found him there sometime later, still sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up, slumped against the bedroom, looking like he'd cried himself to sleep.

She picked him up and carried him to his bedroom placing him softly in the centre of his king sized bed. He looked foolishly tiny in the oversized bed, like a Lilliputian suddenly transported to Gulliver's world, in fact he looked far too small for the room in general.

There was nothing childish about his bedroom, it was all adult furniture, large and dark, the colour of the walls and accents a soft blue grey. Sabrina had said that the choices she'd made complimented his colouring. That he couldn't even reach the top drawer of his dresser was probably a detail about which she wasn't even aware, and even if she had been, wouldn't have cared about.

The housekeeper got a damp washcloth from Boone's bathroom and sponged the dried tears off his face. Prying the book from his arms and putting it on his bedside table she leaned down and kissed the porcelain skin of his forehead tenderly.

Returning to the kitchen, she oversaw the remainder of the preparations for Christmas dinner, keeping a wary eye on the clock the whole time. She knew that if Boone didn't appear precisely on time, there'd be hell to pay for sure. Finally realizing that the boy wasn't going to wake up on his own, she sent one of the serving girls to fetch him.

Unfortunately Sabrina was just coming out of the living room, where her guests were all gathered for pre-dinner cocktails, when the maid passed.

Faced with the demand to explain where she was going, the girl stammered something about having to use the bathroom.

"What's the matter with the servant's facilities?" Sabrina demanded.

"They're occupied, Mrs. Carlyle." The girl lied frantically.

"And you're not adult enough to be able to wait until they're not? I find that hard to believe. Follow me." Sabrina strode off down the hall, the maid trailing behind her.

In the kitchen Sabrina faced down Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper. "This girl apparently has bladder control problems, were you aware of that?"

Mrs. Simpson, trying to calm the frantic girl standing behind her employer, gave the poor terrified teenager a quick glance of assurance, "She did say that she…"

"Mother?" Boone's hesitant and slightly sleepy voice cut her off.

Sabrina spun quickly to regard her son, with her back turned she didn't notice the grimace that the housekeeper inadvertently gave at the appearance of the boy.

"Did you sleep in those clothes?!?" Sabrina demanded as she regarded the rumpled appearance of her only offspring.

"I don't…I mean…I'm not sure…I thought I didn't. I mean, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, please…I'm on time." Boone stammered. He'd anticipated being warmly welcomed at appearing punctually, he'd checked the clock on awakening disoriented in his own bed and happily realized that it was at least ten minutes before Sabrina's announced deadline for dinner.

"You're a disgrace. You're certainly not fit to sit at my dinner table like that; you'll go to your room immediately." Sabrina dismissed his attempts to save himself.

Mrs. Simpson had had enough. "Well he's certainly more than dapper enough to sit at Chef's table. Come here Boone, we've a seat for you." She held her arm out welcomingly, keeping a smarmy smile on her face the whole time. 'Two can play at this game' she silently challenged Sabrina.

Sabrina's head whipped in her direction, her face pinched in fury as if she'd just been the recipient of a snide comment about her fashion sense.

Boone edged toward and past his mother timidly, almost bolting once he'd cleared her personal space.

Once he reached her side he cringed against Mrs. Simpson, as her hand came down to rest protectively around his shoulder.

"Don't you worry about the boy, Mrs. Carlyle, we'll see to it he's fed and put to bed properly, just enjoy your party." The false smile remained intact, as did the patently false cheeriness of her tone. The housekeeper pressed the small boy against her side reassuringly.

Clearly overtrumped, not wanting to be humiliated in front of her staff, Sabrina had no option but to nod graciously and thank her with totally fabricated warmth before returning to her guests in the dining room.

When the pre-carved turkey was carried out and then served, no one noticed that the most prized slices of white meat, the ones closest to the bone, the ones juiciest and most succulent, were strangely absent.

In the kitchen, chocolate milk in a cut crystal glass by his hand, the nefariously withheld white meat of the turkey and the fluffiest of whipped potatoes on his plate, Boone was surrounded by happy people honestly buoyed by the holiday spirit. He took a moment to consider that perhaps this wasn't the worst of Christmases after all.

It was a momentous occasion in his life, however one of which he was completely unaware. Though he was a little too young to understand the actual concept, he'd unwitting stumbled on his only chance for survival, the only way he was going to save not only his sanity, but his very humanity. When life gave you lemons, you made lemonade, and he was going to be making gallons of it in the years ahead.


End file.
